


Fortunate Son

by Roadsterguy



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Gay Sex, Gen, Genderqueer, Good and Evil, Heaven, Hell, M/M, Other, Sins, Soldiers, Temptation, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vietnam War, War, War Crimes, automatic checkouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 04:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19822408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadsterguy/pseuds/Roadsterguy
Summary: After that mess in Paris, Crowley isn't about to let Aziraphale go wandering around and stumbling into trouble without being on hand to yank him back out again.  It's just what friends are for, when they aren't tempting mortals into damnation.





	Fortunate Son

There is an art to the reveal. That perfectly calculated moment of announcing one’s presence that’s so unexpected that it leaves the subject quite literally speechless.

Crowley lives for those moments. Well, when it comes to Aziraphale, at least. And so he put some effort into it – lying back casually against a rack of ordinance, dressed in regulation camouflage, with cigarettes and condoms held to his helmet with rubber bands, an automatic rifle sitting casually in his hands. “You’re sticking out like an incubus at a nunnery.”

Aziraphale jumped slightly, eyes widening. And yes, he had tried; he was wearing combat fatigues, but he was still wearing a pocket-watch with them. And there was no camouflaging his look of wide-eyed innocence, those big eyes combined with his expressive lips, something unearthly in his eyes and his manner. “Oh! My dear fellow, what are _you_ doing here?”

Crowley shrugged. “Seemed like a good opportunity for mischief. I thought I would check out the territory.” Yes, he had just _happened_ to be in the area. He hadn’t been watching Aziraphale like a debauched hawk for the last few centuries, or anything. He had taken his attention away for just a moment, and the angel had almost ended up decapitated in Paris. He wasn’t going to make _that_ mistake again.

“Ah, yes.” That little look of disapproval that cut more deeply than Crowley would ever admit. “This conflict is one of _yours_ , is it?”

“What?” Crowley asked, offended. “No! I hate _wars_. Wait,” he held up his hand. “Not a war, I’m sorry. A _police action_. Still - not my style.”

Aziraphale settled delicately next to him. Crowley pretended not to look at the angel, silly as that whole idea was. How could anyone _not_? Yes, he had known Aziraphale before everything, before the Fall, before their corporeal bodies. When they had been collections of potential, of thoughts and meanings, of abstract ideas. Corporeality had changed them both, but it had changed Aziraphale in ways Crowley had to find the right words for, words he re-discovered every time he looked at the angel’s delicate profile, his expressive mouth, his excessively innocent eyes. These were very human emotions flowing in Crowley – want, desire, lust, avarice – and wasn’t that appropriate? But the angel was talking. “You must collect a great many souls in a war.”

Crowley shrugged, wanting to lean into Aziraphale, rub shoulders, touch hips, but he didn’t. It wasn’t right for a demon to touch an angel. “Yeah, yeah – if you kill a child, you go to hell. If you burn a village, you go to hell. Rape a virgin, cut a teenager’s throat, blah… blah… blah… go to hell. But your boss is so indiscriminate. Use,” Crowley pointed upwards, “ _that_ name a little too loosely, lust after your neighbor’s wife, your neighbor’s donkey, any damn thing of your neighbor’s, eat a cheeseburger… go to hell. Why start a whole damn war, then? Especially since there’s a lot of self-sacrificing bollocks in wartime that send them up _your_ way! I’d rather grind them all down with petty little sins.” It was so easy, and sometimes, it was a lot of fun. _The acts of the sinful nature are obvious: sexual immorality, impurity and debauchery_ , as the handbook said. Aziraphale might prefer gentleman’s clubs, but Crowley delighted in the bathhouses. The slip of the towel, the meaningful glance, and then the activity. In the low light, Crowley could make do with creative underwear, and then with ten minutes of activity – sometimes less – a man would be damned to serve the demons in the afterlife, just for experiencing some rather delicious pleasure.

That little furrow in Aziraphale’s brow. That twitch in his lip. Crowley felt his snake’s tongue stir in his mouth, wanting to sneak out. Just a little taste. Just a little smell. But he knew himself, he knew he couldn’t stop there, so he shouldn’t even start. “There are levels, circles…” Aziraphale noted.

“Yes, the top versus the bottom. The punishments vary, but come on, they’re still damned for all eternity. They’re still on _our_ side.” Crowley leaned close. “I’ve been working on this _thing_ … it’s an automatic checkout. You know, like at a market. It’s a robot that scans your purchases for payment.”

“It sounds very convenient!” Aziraphale said, brightly.

“Yes, it _sounds_ very convenient.” Crowley grinned wickedly.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale sighed. “It’s going to send a lot of souls your way, isn’t it.”

“At least as many as this war!” Crowly waved his hand, leaning back. “And with waaaay less of a body count.” And no innocent little kids dying. Those were _such_ a downer. They should all have a chance to grow to adulthood, to delight in sin, or eschew it and get their Eternal Reward, which was apparently to dress like a twat in a white suit. Crowley stared at Aziraphale’s face. After almost six thousand years, you’d think he’d be tired of it, but he never lost interest in every pore, every twitch, the way his mouth moved when he talked, when he smiled. The shape of his pert little nose. The curve of his chin.

“There is,” Aziraphale said, setting his mouth in that way that made Crowley want to melt back into his serpent form and twine around the angel, “a greater plan. The _Great Plan_. My place is to serve it, not to question it!”

“Then why muck about here? The Great Plan is in motion! There’s nothing we can do to stop all of this that wouldn’t be well against the rules of your side and mine, both.” He sighed. “You know,” he leaned back, regarding Aziraphale, “maybe the Great Plan wants you to have spicy fish ball soup at this fantastic stand down the street.” It also served beer that shouldn’t be legal in a civilized society. 

“Fish… fish ball soup, you say,” Aziraphale said, thoughtfully. “If you insist…”

Yes. He did insist. Crowley wanted to get absolutely shit-faced, and watch Aziraphale eat. His elegant hands guiding food to his sensuous mouth, his lips closing around it, his eyes falling half-closed in delight… fucking hell, Crowley wanted to get drunk watching it, then pleasure himself like a mortal later. Why not. This was his life now. He had believed, once, in the Almighty. Then he had believed in Satan. Now he believed in nothing in particular, except for earthly pleasure.

Nothing. He reminded himself. _Nothing_.

Hell and damnation.


End file.
